Love, Laughter, and Life
by gsrshipper
Summary: It was a huge circle: life, laughter, and love—and Sara is what glues the three together. Spoilers from the Season 6 finale, Way to Go. COMPLETE [GSR]


**Post-Way to Go fic! I decided to give a shot at it, too. DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE FINALE AND DON'T WANT TO BE SPOILED. (Though if you haven't by now, I'm sure you're already spoiled.) Anyway, I didn't feel like bothering people to beta this for me--so any mistakes in grammar and what-not are my own. Reviews are greatly appreciated, even if you want to criticize my writing! Whatever helps me get better:)**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own CSI. **

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**Love, Laughter, and Life **

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"I'm not ready to say goodbye." 

Grissom grinned gently at the figure across from him. Sara smiled right back, even cocking an eyebrow for effect. His own smile warped into a smirk as he wrapped his hand around hers and tugged.

"C'mere."

Sara obeyed willingly and settled herself against his chest, while Grissom used his free hand to fluff the pillows between him and the headboard. They laid there for a few seconds in silence, whether pondering or just feeling content. Grissom closed his eyes, letting his other four senses take over for a minute.

He smelled the shampoo that screamed Sara—the same scent he had grown accustomed to since they started their relationship. He remembered smelling it as he fell into the hospital chair next to her, waiting for news on Nick's condition. He remembered the same smell that night they fell asleep on her bed, exhausted from their conversation of life, risks, and opportunities. And most importantly, he remembered it the morning after—breathing in her scent when she asked if he regretted staying that night. _"It wasn't a mistake. It was choice." He paused and inhaled again, "One that I wanted to make."_

Sara heard Grissom's deep inhale; she knew he loved the smell of her shampoo. The first time she thought he tried to capture her scent was when he had her pinned in front of a bloody sheet. She wasn't for sure then—just a theory she came up with when he gazed into her eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. She heard him then, but it was when they first fell into bed together, in a tangle of limbs and sweat, that she confirmed her theory. She remembered hearing his shallow breaths against her ear, and a definite sound of sniffing as he buried his face in her hair and came. And just before she drifted off to sleep, she heard the faintest whisper. _"I love you."_

Grissom felt her shift in his arms as she climbed up his shoulder and panted her lips briefly on his. He smiled and pulled her back to deepen the kiss, tasting a faint trace of mint toothpaste and Scope. His thoughts drifted to the many flavors he's had of her. He remembered licking the salty sweat off her exhausted body when she came home from her evening jog, substituting making love in place of a shower. And when she actually does get to shower, he thinks of the many times he's kissed her body after a fresh decomp case—savoring the sourness of the lemons instead of the odor of death. He remembered the first time he realized she's fallen in love with him, tasting the sweetness of chocolate covered grasshoppers on her lips. And through his taste, he remembers how he's fallen in love with her too, even willing to endure the awful taste of bittermelon. _"It's good for you," she said with a wink. "And if I have to eat a bug—much less an animal—you can handle a healthy vegetable."_

With her mouth still toying with his, Sara allowed her hands to roam his body. She traced her fingers down his forearms, finally intertwining their hands together. She thought of the times he's held her hand; first at the police station after her almost-DUI, then as a sign of comfort when she told him about her past. She finds it amusing that he has to struggle now to remember that he _can't _hold her hand during work, so he settles on guiding her around with his hand pressed softly against the small of her back. As she works the buttons on his shirt, she felt his hands snake under her robe, gentle as ever. He loves to touch her, even subconsciously. There were many times they fell asleep separately, but she wakes up to find him spooning her. Sometimes, it's just a hand on her hip—but it's enough. And not only does he love to touch her, but she loves to touch him. She loves to touch every physical feature—tracing every wrinkle with her fingers, rubbing his beard against her cheek. He hates that his features define his age; she loves that his features define his personality. _"You're not old," she says with a smirk. She ran her thumb across the wrinkle just below his eye. "You're perfect."_

They broke away simultaneously, panting lightly. "We only have a few hours," Grissom stated pointedly. It had been a long shift, and in a few hours, they were due to pay Brass a visit at the hospital as well as go back to work.

"Mmm, yeah." Sara untied her robe and dropped it haphazardly on the floor, revealing her tank-top and panties. She slid under the covers, arranged her pillows, and turned to face him. "Goodnight Gris."

Grissom glared at her—his shirt completely unbuttoned—with a frown on his face.

Sara couldn't help but smirk. "What? You need your sleep, and so do I. I'll make it up to you tomorrow morning."

"Right." He stood up and took off his shirt, folding it neatly into a square. Walking around toward the bathroom, he placed it on the hamper, along with his sweats. Rolling his eyes, he picked up Sara's robe. "Do you always treat my gifts with such disrespect?" he quipped sarcastically, while hanging the garment up in the bathroom.

Sara laughed, "No, it's just convenient." Grissom walked out of the bathroom—eyebrow raised—switched off the lights and climbed gingerly under the covers next to Sara. "That way, I can wake up, reach down and get my robe, put it on—and I wouldn't have to move."

Grissom snuggled underneath the covers and turned, smiling at Sara's smug expression. "Lazy," he teased.

Sara felt him snake an arm around her waist. "No, just smart," she replied, resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at him. "And look who's talking. I don't see you wearing _my_ gift out in public."

Grissom grinned and pulled her closer. Sara had bought him a ridiculously out-of-character shirt a few months ago. The color screamed Grissom. It was borderline royal and navy blue. The only problem was, it had—what Grissom thought to be—a hilarious imitation of Hawaiian print riddled all over it. But nonetheless, he loved it. It was his, and it was from Sara—it was special. "It's not because I don't like it."

"Ah, that's right. You only wear it to bed, because I'm the only one special enough to see you in it?"

"Exactly," Grissom's grin widened at Sara's obviously sarcastic remark. "You know me so well."

Sara laughed and rested her arm in between their chests. Scrunching her face in mock-disgust, she remarked, "Well, I have been sleeping with you."

Grissom pulled her tighter and wiggled his fingers around her waist. She shrieked and giggled—hating the fact he knew she was ticklish. He stopped reluctantly after her knee came close to hitting a dangerous spot. His grin was replaced by a warm smile. "I really do love that shirt, Sara. But if I ever wear that thing to work, rumors will definitely fly."

She squinted her eyes at him in question.

"No one's going to believe _I_ actually bought that for myself."

Sara grinned, "Are you saying I have bad taste in fashion?"

"No…I'm saying I do," he replied, grinning back smugly.

"If you think someone's going to take one look at that shirt and say—'Oh my gosh! Grissom and Sara are dating, or better yet…having steamy sex in their new house,'—I think you're a bit paranoid."

Grissom raised an eyebrow and pretended to be deep in thought, "Actually, I'm more afraid they'd think I'm sleeping with Greg. That shirt's more his style."

Sara's grin erupted into a full-fledged laughter, and Grissom couldn't help but chuckle, too. He enjoyed this so much. He loved being able to make Sara Sidle laugh, and cursed that the fact he didn't try to do it sooner. For the first time in years, Grissom felt that he was living. His mother had once told him, "Live to love, love to laugh, and laugh to live." He never understood what it meant. But now, lying in bed with his arms wrapped around the woman he loves, he finally did. It was a huge circle: life, laughter, and love—and Sara is what glues the three together.

"I love you, you know that?" She pecked his lips, "And since when did you get a sense of humor?" Before he could respond, she added, "And don't say since you met me."

"Ok." Grissom closed his eyes in preparation of sleep. Sara shook her head. It was such a Grissom thing to do—be in a middle of a conversation, suddenly stop, and decide to go to sleep.

She followed suit and closed her eyes, too. She snuggled against him and murmured, "Night, Gris."

"Sara?"

"Mmmm?"

"Ask me again."

Sara furrowed her brow. Her need of sleep must be clouding her thought. She yawned, eyes still closed, "Ask you what?"

"About my humor."

"Oh. Since when did you get a sense of humor?" she asked, sleep evident in her voice as well as the uncertainty of question.

Though it was unseen by her, Grissom smiled warmly. He gave her a final kiss goodnight before she drifted off to sleep. "Since I fell in love with you," he whispered.

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**End.

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So, even though my writing skills are less than mediocre, should I write a sequel? Let me know...hit the 'go' and review! Thanks for taking the time to read. :) **


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